


Till Black and White Begin to Color in

by Moonlessmondays



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Gen, falice - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-11 23:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlessmondays/pseuds/Moonlessmondays
Summary: Perhaps, there's a part of him that wonders why she hadn't been the one to tell him herself, and he thinks that this had been shittier than perhaps just leaving a note or sending him a text, but he knows her, but he knows how intricate her mind is and that despite knowing her for twenty two out of his twenty five years, he's never really understood how she operates. Modern AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my first Falice Multichap! Hope you all like it. I just want to inform everyone that this is complete AU.  
> It is set during the current year where our beloved Riverparents are in their midtwenties and while I will be keeping some aspects of the characters, I might be changing the backstories a little and there will be times they will appear ooc.
> 
> Anywayyy, on with the show. This is for my bby bubs Corinna Matilda. And my many thanks to thextremefangirl for checking it over!

Chapter One

There isn't really much that surprises Forsythe Pendleton Jones II.

Life has been kind to him in that way, at least, and he can honestly say that in his twenty-five years of existence, he's seen nearly everything there is to see in life. He doesn't put much stock on anything, knowing how easily anything and everything can disappear with a blink of an eye.

Gone...with the wind, just like that. Nothing is permanent, after all, and forever is just another creation of the human mind to give more value into things that mean very little.

And so he hasn't really been surprised when Fred Andrews, of all people, had broken the news to him. It hadn't been out of spite—of course it isn't, Fred Andrews is capable of a lot, but spite isn't his strongest suit—and he'd seen the concern in his friend's eyes when he'd told him. Again, he hadn't been surprised, couldn't really be after all these years.

After all, if there is anyone who knows her better, it's him, and he'd known and had accepted a long time ago that this is where it's leading to.

"She's well...she's", there is an awkward pause, and Fred had shuffled in his feet, twitching which is a good indication that he's nervous, "She's...she's engaged, man," he'd said in a soft voice, his eyes peering at him in that doe-like way that makes him uncomfortable.

Fred had not needed to tell him who she is for FP to guess right away. He'd initially bristled at the almost pitying tone in his friend's voice. It's not really a big deal, after all, and truly, it doesn't matter.

Perhaps, there's a part of him that wonders why she hadn't been the one to tell him herself, and he thinks that this (relaying the message through Fred Andrews) had been shittier than perhaps just leaving a note or sending him a text, but he knows her, but he knows how intricate her mind is and that despite knowing her for twenty two out of his twenty five years, he's never really quite understood how she operates.

He purses his lips for a brief second and reminds himself to breathe...it's no big deal. He looks up at Fred and smiles—one that doesn't reach his eyes, and so obviously forced, it's hard to believe he's fooling anyone with it. "That's good for her, I guess," he murmurs with the sincerity he doesn't feel. It doesn't seem to appease Fred who's looking at him as though he's grown two heads. "Tell her I got the message."

It's not a message...it's not anything, really, but isn't always easier to be on the defensive at times like this?

"FP listen to me," Fred says as he shakes his head. "She's engaged, to be married."

The words are repeated as though he hadn't gotten them the first time, and FP swallows back his irritation. So she's getting married, so she's engaged, what can he do about that? He isn't likely to stop her. Apart from her decidedly not listening to any of his opinions, it's not really his place anymore—or ever—to tell her anything.

"I figured that's what she's engaged to be," he says instead, unable to hide the acid in his words. What else is he supposed to say, anyway? What did Frederick Andrews want him to do? "There's not much that an engagement can lead to."

There is a look that cross Fred's face, but FP doesn't care to read it or decipher it. If Fred wants to feel sorry for him for whatever reason, then he can, but FP isn't going to feel sorry for himself. Instead, he goes back to what he's been doing before Fred had barged into his trailer. He tinkers with his guitar and ignores the other man for the time being, knowing that he'll leave if FP ignores him long enough.

"You're making a mistake, Forsythe," Fred warns as he shakes his head. FP doesn't have to look up to know that his friend is stalking towards the door. There aren't many words exchanged either, as Fred's last words are enough to cover the gaps in between.

So he remains silent, doesn't say a word, doesn't even wince when the door closes and thuds a little louder than normal, for he knows, he knows. He knows he's making a mistake, but what is one more in a high pile of it anyway?

...

Midnight had found FP Jones lounging in his battered old couch, staring into space and counting stars.

He couldn't sleep, has in fact tried to turn in early and go to bed in a more reasonable hour, but no matter how hard he'd tried, sleep has eluded him. He doesn't really know what's keeping him awake...which is a lie, if he's ever heard one. He knows why he's awake, knows why he couldn't bring his mind to rest no matter how exhausted he already is.

It's because of her. It always has been her, and though he doesn't want to admit it, today's revelations had been the primary reason he's still wide awake and unable to find peace and quiet in slumber. It's stupid...so stupid. She probably isn't thinking about it, or him, and he knows it. Why should she even lose sleep over it when she can't even come to see him face to face and tell him?

And he'd thought that for the better part of the past two decades, they'd formed a sort of tenuous friendship. He'd thought it real, too, no matter how volatile their friendship had been. There had been many a time that she'd be found within his company, may it be here in his trailer or when he's playing with his band in the Whyte Wyrm. She had been his friend, she'd said so, and through everything they've been through, they had remained friends.

She'd been there when no one else had been, and it hurts now that she couldn't even trust him enough to let him know that she's going to get married.

"Damn it," FP curses loudly as he gets up from the couch and pads to the kitchen. It's not a big leap from the living room to the kitchen, in fact, there is hardly any division there, and he takes it in two long strides. When he reaches the fridge, he takes out a bottle of beer and looks at it in disdain, wishing he had something stronger to drown his sorrows in.

If he's honest with himself, he knows it's not her not telling him that she's getting married that bothers him the most. It's the fact that she's getting married at all.

He'd be a fool to think that she wouldn't, after all, why shouldn't she? She's gorgeous, and smart, and hot as blazes. She's perfect, despite on the occasion that she becomes a stick in the mud, but even then, she finds a way to redeem herself, and despite it all, he cannot help but admire how strong and fiercely loyal she is to the people she loves.

So why, why had he thought for a second that no one would take notice?

He'd been foolish, so foolish, and now she's about to get hitched.

"Damn," he curses again before takes a swig of the beer. The taste is stale but the cold is a blessed relief and the alcohol does help. It relaxes him in a way that rationality doesn't, and though he's been trying very hard to curb his thirst for alcohol at her insistence (Warden Smith, he'd teased her then when she'd laid on him and his increasingly alarming drinking habits), he cannot help but enjoy the way the alcohol flows from his tongue down his throat, through his every vein.

He resolves to get very drunk and pass out, at that very moment, if it helps him forget the ache that's settled in his chest since Fred had dropped the bomb on him.

And he'd been very well on his way to becoming drunk when, at half past two, he hears the distinct sound of knocking on his door. He ignores it, thinking it's a trick played by his almost drunken state of mind, but he hears it once more, and he can no longer say he's just drunk and it's a trick. Anyway, he's not even that drunk for him to not realize that it's real.

He tries to rack his brain for anyone who might be waiting for him on the other side of the door, but he comes up with none. Tall boy had told him that he'll be leaving town for two days, and Fred's unlikely to come knocking on his door at two in the morning. He's not expecting anyone else, either, and wouldn't bother entertaining in his state.

Grunting, he makes his way to the door and it two quick strides, he pulls it open with more force than is necessary. He'd planned to lay the fear of god into the person on the other side, making sure they never come knocking at this time of this night (he is known for his temper, after all, and there are times when that kind of reputation is put to good use. He falls short and words gets stuck and his tongue becomes glued to the roof of his mouth when he sees the person on the other side.

Well, this, he hadn't really expected.

"Alice?" he says softly, and his heart beats hard against his chest at the sight of the very woman who'd broken his heart with one word: engaged.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who have been reading this, sorry for the delay. 
> 
> *Unbetaed. All mistakes are mine*

 

 

**Chapter Two**

“Alice?” He hears the surprise in his own voice as his eyes widen. He hasn’t really thought she’d come knocking on his door, the message had been clear in the way that Frederick freaking Andrews delivered the news to him instead of her. He expected it even less that she’d be knocking this late in the night.

She looks up at him, her eyes an open book for a split second—and he can see how uncomfortable she really is, standing there in the cold, waiting and waiting. She’s twitching, shuffling her feet in a nervous way that he rarely ever sees in her.

She’s a formidable one,  _his_  (not really  _his_ ) Alice, and she doesn’t show any signs of weakness, thinking that showing vulnerability will only lead to that being used against her. So he finds it odd when she displays discomfort so blatantly.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything in response. It’s clear that he’s about to take the lead right now, because she’s obviously not going to volunteer anything—not even a peep or squeak—tonight.

She bites down on her lip and breathes slowly. When she looks at him fully, she sighs, and then seems to remember herself, pulling all her courage and defenses around her like a cape. “Aren’t you going to let me in?” She asks it as though she’s the one being greatly inconvenienced.

It’s classic Alice, that he knows, and he shakes his in response—unable to do anything else—before he steps aside to let her in. He makes a show of bowing and gesturing for her to come in, muttering “ _Come in, Your Majesty_ ,” under his breath.

She’s heard it, he knows by the way she quirks her lips and rolls her eyes, but she wisely doesn’t say more.

He watches her then as she makes her way to the couch he had been lying on and takes a seat gingerly. She doesn’t say much, or anything at all, and he, too, is at a loss for words. There is tension building in his very small trailer, and it’s heavy and thick that it’s almost tangible.

She’s obviously come here for a reason. She isn’t going to just come knocking in the middle of the night for nothing, looking as though the weight of the world has just been transferred on her shoulders, if she doesn’t want anything from him. But he’s not going to draw it out from her, he’s not even going to ask, because frankly she doesn’t even deserve that.

He knows her, knows Alice almost as well as he knows himself, maybe even better. He’s known her since she’s been nothing but a three year old kid, playing in the mud with him, living alongside him in the Sunnyside Trailer park. She’d been nothing then, barely a blip on anyone’s radar, until she’s moved to New York for college, having scored a full scholarship at Vassar. It had been a big deal for her, being able to rise out of the worse of the worse. It’s been a big deal for her old man, too, who apart from not being arsed to do more than drink like a fish in a barrel day in day out, would actually come up for air a fair few seconds to brag to anyone who might listen that  _his_ Alice made it on a scholarship and will be moving to the Big Apple to study. She’s the first one in the long line of Smiths of the South Side to be able to make the feat and she probably will be the last (not including the half Smiths she’ll sire with that Beach Blonde Barbie boy she’s dating—nah,  _engaged_  with right now). It isn’t as though her father had any hand to her getting the scholarship at Vassar.

Father or not, moving to NY is big, so much bigger for the small town girl who had wanted only to even just move to the right side of the town. Accomplishing it is a feat in itself. And even better for her, because it’s actually where she met Hal, in a convention in New York for budding new journalists that they both attended. It just so happens that Hal Cooper is also the son of newspaper magnate call the  _Register_ , and that he’s fallen in love with the witty blonde girl from the small town.

Hal hadn’t known then where she’d come from, all skin she had tried so hard to shed before she’d left, hadn’t known she used to live in a trailer park until FP had shown up in his motorcycle, wearing that leather jacket with Serpent logo, she— _herself—_ used to wear. Alice had been forced to admit the kind of life she used to live, tried to conceal. Wonder of wonders, Hal had accepted her, with only one condition: that she no longer join the serpents.

To FP, that had been equivalent to turning her back on her family, the very same people who had sheltered her and her mother from his drunk of a father, and had helped her put food in her belly when her own table had been lacking, the ones who’d had her back. To Alice, it had obviously been such a small price to pay to climb the so-called social ladder. His only silver lining had been when Alice put her foot down on severing ties with FP and her other Serpent friends. There aren’t many, Alice isn’t the friendliest serpent, after all, but she’d stood her ground nonetheless. It had surprised him, then, and even Hal, but she had been adamant, and told him and Hal both that her reasons are her own, and that she was going to give up the Serpent life, live the life worthy of a Newspaper Magnate’s son’s girlfriend, but she isn’t going to give up her friends just for Hal, and that neither of them had the say. Apparently, not even  _him_  who had been the man in question. They’d all accepted it, but now FP wonders if it’s been just one of her elaborate plans to keep hurting him.

He wouldn’t put it past Alice. After all, she knows what he felt for her, what he  _still_  feels for her.

And after all, it is only  _him_  amongst her Serpent friends that she’s kept. No matter how adamant she’d been at not giving up her friends, she’d dropped them anyway, had severed ties with most of them, which had boggled and still boggles FP’s mind.

Her presence here, alone, is enough to bamboozle his already intoxicated mind.

“I’m sorry,” he hears her say, and it breaks him from his thoughts. He looks at her with wide eyes, floored at what she’d said. She rarely ever apologizes, in fact in all the years he’s known her, he’s only heard her apologize once, maybe two times. All the other times, she finds a way to sound indignant and  _wronged_ , even when she’s the one who’s been wrong. She is persuasive that way.

“I don’t think I heard you right, what was that?’ he teases, because he can’t help it. It is a cold day in hell when Alice Elizabeth Smith apologizes to anyone, much less to him. This must be  _some_  kind of a banner day.

She lifts her gaze at him (she is still sitting on the couch while he is standing a few steps away from her, leaning against the counter and watching her—he needs this bit of space between them because he is tempted to hold on to her and never let her go), and then glares, making him chuckle. There is nothing funny at the moment, not at all, but this is the only response he can give her now, because if he doesn’t laugh it off, he might start crying in front of her and that’s embarrassing. He doesn’t cry,  _ever,_  not in front of her, or anyone, and he’ll carry on with his broken hide hidden inside his sleeve.

“I said I’m sorry,” she repeats, slowly this time, as if she’s talking to a child and her patience is being stretched too thin. She looks at him insolently, and he clicks his tongue and looks away, ignores the knocking of his heart, and the way it breaks inside his chest.

He looks down now, does everything to avoid her eyes because he doesn’t really want to look into them and find…well, he doesn’t know, he supposes he doesn’t want to know that’s in them—be it good or bad. Really, either way, he can’t and  _won’t_  win. 

He knows there’s nothing to do now, now words to say to change anything or make it better. Honestly, it’s been over before it’s started and all he can do is smile ruefully and shake his head. “Whatever for, darlin’?” he asks ironically, because, really—what should she even be sorry for?

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

She shrugs, and yes, that’s what he thought so, too.

“Well, there’s no use for that now, is there?” he asks unnecessarily. They both know it. She’s not really sorry, and he’s not really going to be fine even if she apologizes and he tells her it’s okay—so what really even is the point?

She looks at him, startled, eyes wide, and then it changes to betrayed, as though he’s the one who’s hurt her. But by what? How? By not accepting her apology? By saying it doesn’t matter? So maybe that hurts, but is it even the same magnitude as the pain he’s feeling now?

“FP—,” she tries to say but he just shakes his head. He does not really know what else to say, and he doesn’t want to hear the remorse that isn’t there.

“What would you be apologizing for?” he asks then. “Are you sorry that you’re getting married? Or are you sorry that I had to find out from Fred Andrews?” She’s the one who looks away now, unable to keep looking him in the eye because somewhere along the way, he’d hit the nail on the head. “I thought we were better than that, Alice.”

“We are,” she says staunchly, and he almost believes it, except actions speak louder than words and her actions definitely have spoken for her. “We are better than that, and I’m sorry.” There is a desperation and pleading in her voice now that he doesn’t recognize. He’s never known her to be desperate or pleading. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself.”

His heart clenches at her words. He knows she won’t be sorry for being engaged—because why should she? She’s sorry that she hadn’t told him—understandable. It just doesn’t mean that he hadn’t wished that she’s sorry for being engaged to someone else that’s not him.

It’s not a discussion they should be having. At this point, it’s not anymore an issue to be had between them. But somehow, her getting married hurts him after loving her for the last few years. Still, it’s not her fault she obviously doesn’t feel the same for him that he does for her.

So he smirks at her, shrugs his shoulder, and lets her off the hook easily, because despite the pain he feels inside, it’s not her responsibility anymore, not that it ever has been in the first place. “Sure, Ali,” he tells her sincerely, using the pet name she has only ever allowed  _him_ to use. “No harm, no foul.”

There’s so much harm and so much foul in everything that’s going on—her getting married, and  _not_  to him is crushing him to smithereens, but  _again_  that is  _not_  her fault, so he lets it go. There isn’t much he won’t do for her anyway, regardless if she asks it of him or not.

She looks at him for a second, as though trying to gauge how true his words are, and he leaves his face bare of the pain he feels, leaves his expression blank for her to openly read. And then in a split second, all  _her_ armour falls and her shoulders sag. Her lips quirk into a small smile that he finds breathtakingly beautiful, and he sighs, opens his arms for her to step into. It’s mechanic, almost an autopilot at this point, because she had been his best friend longer than she had been the woman he is stupidly in lo9ve with, and comfort comes with that kind of relationship.

She goes willingly into his embrace, her soft sigh hitting the skin of his neck the moment his arms tighten around her. He can’t help it, his lips presses a soft kiss against her forehead of their own accord, and for a second he wonders if she would mind, but it only makes her burrow deeper into his arms, her nose burying deeper into his chest. Her shoulders rise and fall, and his hand rubs up and down her back, pressing against the tension knots he finds. She sighs gratefully, purrs even, making him chuckle.

There is a reason he likes to call her  _Allie Cat_.

She is tough and can be a downright bitch when she wants to be or when she feels attacked or threatened, but she can be affectionate and liquid in his arms when she allows her guards down enough to let him in. There are only a few times in the history of their friendship that he’s seen her stripped off and bared from all her armour and her walls down, and it had been the few moments in his life that he cherishes the most.

 _That_ , and she likes to purr when she’s been rubbed down and comfortable.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admits to him softly, and rarely does she admit defeat, she is proud that way, and through the years he’s learned to just accept it…that it’s not her wanting to be better than everyone else, but wanting to be a better version of herself, a better version of how  _she_ sees herself.

She sighs when he doesn’t answer, only presses a kiss against her forehead. He doesn’t know what to say, has nothing to say…nothing that wouldn’t end in him begging her not to go through with her impending wedding, anyway.

**…**

 

Whyte Wyrm is great for trying to drown out any sound until your ears are deaf, and drown your sorrows until your veins are flowing with alcohol instead of blood.

It is also a good place to avoid Alice Smith. Although she’s not averse to him spending time there, she doesn’t frequent it herself--not anymore, so if he’s trying to  _not_  see her, he knows to hole up and go to the Whyte Wyrm. If  _she_  wants to see  _him_  though, she knows exactly where to find him.

It is just a good thing, now, that today, she is out in New York, doing God knows what with her  _now_  fiancé, so it goes without saying that she is not  _at_   _all_  thinking about him, and would have absolutely zero desire to reach out to him and find him. With the way they left things last time they’d met when she’d barged inside his trailer, he knows there will be a second round. He is just glad it’s not right now.

Everything seems so new and so raw for him right now. It hasn’t been that long since Fred had dropped the news to him, it must’ve been…what…more or less two weeks since? And it hasn’t done much to heal the wounds. Maybe, he’s stupid, maybe he’s in love, or maybe he’s just stupidly in love with her that he can’t move past it.

He’s tried, though, has tried to let her have the freedom and happiness he’s never really had a hold on or a claim over to, ever, anyway, but it’s hard. It’s so flipping difficult because as much as he wants her to be happy, he can’t help but wish that she’d find her happiness with  _him_.

“What did that glass ever do to you?” he hears someone ask, and he turns to find Fred behind him, looking at him as though he doesn’t know exactly why he’s being like this. “What are you brooding about?”

FP scoffs and then slouches further into his seat, his head hitting the soft palms of his hand. He pushes the glass away from him slightly and flags the bartended for a refill. “It’s not like you don’t know,” is all he says.

Fred takes it as an invitation to take the stool next to him, and though FP isn’t particularly looking for company at the moment, he says nothing. It’s not like he can stop him anyway. Fred motions for the bar tender to pour him one as well, and takes one long sip when his glass is filled.

“So she told you herself, huh?” Fred asks, making Fred snort in derision. Is he really  _that_ transparent?

“What are you doing here?” FP asks instead. “This is not exactly your scene.” He gestures towards the space around them. Fred would play here on occasion, but this isn’t exactly where Fred would choose to hang out. He’d pick  _Pop’s Choc’lit Shoppe_ over  _Whyte Wyrm_  any day.

Fred shrugs. “I dropped by your place to check on you and no one’s home,” he answers plainly. “I thought this would be the next best place to look for you.”

FP rolls his eyes, annoyed. “She’s getting married, so what? Big deal. People get married all the time,” he says, spitting out acid as he spits out his words. “I’ll live. You don’t need to babysit me, Fred.” A thought settles in his mind, however, and he turns a beady eye to his friend. “Or is she asking you to baby sit me? I know she’s now your next door,  _friendly_ , neighbour, but…”

Fred shakes his head vehemently at that. “She hasn’t asked me to do that, and I am aware you don’t need to be babysat. I’m here as a friend. I know people get married all the time, but this time, one of those people is the woman you love.”

If looks could kill, Fred would be buried six feet under by now.

It is a secret to no one, not even Alice herself, that Forsythe Pendleton Jones the second is madly in love with Alice Elizabeth Smith, sure, but it doesn’t mean that Fred can just go shouting it at the rooftops—or the Whyte Wyrm.

This is why self-pity and wallowing are done alone—company can be  _annoying._

He huffs. “Shout it a little louder, why don’t you?” he asks as he lifts his glass and downs the rest of his drink. “I don’t think the entire bar heard you, yet." 

It isn't like it's exactly a secret though, is it? That he's in love with her? So it doesn’t really matter, except, hearing it out loud makes him sound  _and_  feel pathetic.

 

The thought is punctuated by Fred’s not so subtle eye rolling.

 _Alright,_ FP thinks bitterly _, he’s got the point._

“So what are you going to do?” Fred asks him, taking another long sip of his drink. FP watches him with trepidation—no matter what Fred insists, he really is  _not_  a big drinker. Alice alone can drink him to oblivion and still be standing on two feet and recite the alphabet backwards, albeit a bit slurred.

FP sighs, hating to point out the obvious, but that’s exactly what he’s going to—“What am I  _supposed_  to do?” he asks, annoyed. He gulps back the rest of his drink in one go and slams the glass down on the counter with force, the frustration getting the best of him. “I can hardly ask her no to go through with it. And I sure as hell won’t, unless I have gone well and truly lost my mind.”

Later on, when the alcohol that’s been running through his veins has all been flushed, he’ll knowingly blame it to Fred’s inclination to hopeless romance, but right then, when he’s all but sobered up and the frustration and pain are both raw in his heart and mind, he flies off the handle when Fred says “ _you could,”_  quietly.

“And then what?” he bursts out as he slams his palm down the table and then holds on to the edge to prevent more rages like that. The people around them have started looking and he hangs his head to avoid the gaze, waits for them to start minding their own business. “I haven’t got anything to offer her, Fred. Nothing that Hal fucking Cooper can’t in triple the size. He can offer her the while colonial she’s dreamt of with the picket fence and the flowery garden. I can offer her a dilapidated trailer at Sunny Side park, at the wrong side of the town. He’s got some Newspaper Tycoon for a father and what do I have? A father who can drink from dusk to dawn, rinse repeat.”

He feels Fred’s gaze hot on his skin, and he knows what that is—it’s pity, and fuck, he doesn’t need that right now.

“You can offer her more than that, FP,” Fred insists and FP snorts half in disbelief and half in disgust. Sure, love will feed them and keep them having a row when there’s more debt than income in the household.

Alice is an ambitious woman, and he means that in the best possible way, she won’t settle in the life she’d tried her damnest to leave behind.

Hal is her ticket out of that shithole.

FP is just…FP will just have to learn to love her from afar.

“I can offer her nothing, Fred,” FP laments sadly as he tries to fight back the emotions bubbling on his throat. “And she’s the kinda woman who deserves  _everything.”_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know whatcha think!!


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